There was a vulnerability in her eyes that matched my own. “Tiffany,” I replied, choosing my words with care, “I just wanted respect. Your mother taught us that love doesn’t flourish without it.”

She nodded slowly, tears brimming in her eyes. “Harry and I have talked. He understands now. We want you to come back.”

Her words hung in the air, a balm for the hurt we had caused each other. I reached across the table, taking her hand in mine. “Let’s start fresh,” I suggested, a tentative hope in my voice. “But this time, let’s make sure it’s a home for all of us, not just a house.”

In that moment, surrounded by the comforting hum of the café, we began to rebuild what had been broken, one conversation at a time.